KAYLEE

Bambi.

The nickname had hit like a bruise, sharp and deep. My chest tightened but it wasn’t just the name—it was the way Skoll said it.

Like he still saw me as that trembling girl too afraid to meet his eyes and for some reason, that grated. 

Skoll had called me that since I was twelve, the first time he found me crying in the hallway after my mother's sharp words had cut too deep. 

"Look at those wet eyes," he'd said, towering over me like a shadow given form. "Like a frightened little deer. Bambi."

It wasn't the tears that earned the name. It was the way I'd always flinched when he was near me, the way I always froze in place—prey instinct taking over at the mere proximity of a predator. 

How I'd trembled, unable to meet his gaze.

The name stuck. Not because it fit but because it hurt and Skoll knew it. Because it reminded me of my weakness every time it fell from his lips.

And now, years later, watching him go after Russell with an almost bored precision, I realized some things hadn't changed at all. I was still flinching. Still trembling.

Still Bambi.

Russell choked as Skoll’s fingers clamped around his jaw, grip tightening just enough to wrench his mouth open.

The warlock thrashed, panic flaring in his eyes. Fingers twitching, a sickly hum of magik sparked to life at his fingertips—raw energy crackling in the air, ozone and desperation thick on the tongue.

But the moment the spell touched Skoll, it died. Fizzled into nothing and the Lycan didn’t even flinch. Didn’t blink.

Russell’s panic spiked as his power—his lifeline, his birthright—slid off Skoll like water over stone. No resistance. No reaction.

Nothing.

That was the thing about Lycans, most magik didn’t work on them. No wards. No hexes. No clever spells to save you. That immunity and beastly strength made them feared. Uncontested, untouchable but it came at a cost.

No healing. No enhancements and only bone, blood and brutality to keep them standing.

And Skoll? He looked carved from all three.

With terrifying ease, he pressed his thumb inside Russell’s mouth, tilting his head back and pinning him to the bookshelf. His emerald gaze scanned the warlock’s face with detached amusement—cold, clinical, cruel.

“Do you know what a deer sounds like when it’s caught?” Skoll asked, voice low, conversational.
Too calm for what was about to happen.

“I think you’ve scared him enough,” I said quickly, trying to anchor the moment before it spiraled further. “We should head back to the dinner party.”

I should teleport somewhere else…

Russell whimpered—muffled, frantic—his fingers clawing at Skoll’s wrist and the Lycan didn’t move. Didn’t even acknowledge the effort because his strength wasn’t just physical. It was absolute.

The kind that didn’t yield. The kind that didn’t care.

When Skoll hadn’t backed away, I pushed myself off the desk, hands trembling against the polished wood and my body throbbed from Russell’s earlier blow—ribs aching, stomach tight, nausea curling in my throat.

“I’m not done with my story,” Skoll finally said as I walked away and toward the library door.

“I don’t care,” My intentions were to leave them here, but beneath the wet, garbled whimper choking from Russell’s throat, a darker thought slithered in.

He deserves this.

That realization hit harder than the violence itself.

I told myself it was the pain talking—trauma, adrenaline, shock but it didn’t stop the ugly satisfaction from curling low in my belly.

“When you rip a stag’s throat out,” Skoll furthered, voice dreamy, distant, “the sound it makes… it’s not a dog’s whimper. Not a wolf’s growl.”

I stilled, too curious for my own good, and made the mistake of glancing back. I should have been horrified, when Skoll leaned in, nostrils flaring slightly as though he could smell the kill.

And don’t get me wrong, I was terrified but also wrongly intrigued.

“It’s high. Strangled. Like they don’t understand what’s happening. Like their body’s still pretending it can fight. Still pretending it isn’t seconds away from becoming food.”

I swallowed back bile as my pulse pounded.

Gods.

If it was possible, Skoll came back more feral.

More depraved.

Who the hell gets poetic about throat-ripping?

Russell gagged, veins bulging at his temple as Skoll applied more pressure. The Lycan’s thumb shoved into his mouth, forcing his jaw wider.

“Skoll—” Tears blurred my vision now but he ignored me.

Then, he shoved forward and his fingers drove cruelly into Russell’s gums, grinding against teeth with deliberate, excruciating force.

Russell screamed.

High. Broken. Human.

The sound tore from him like something dying—muffled by Skoll’s grip, drowned by the wet gurgle of blood.

There was a thick, wet pop and Russell convulsed. A guttural, animal cry ripped free as blood burst from his mouth, bubbling over his lips in a hot crimson stream, spilling down his chin in thick, glossy streaks.

I flinched, hands flying to my mouth.

Horror twisted inside me—sharp and sickening.

“Skoll, stop!” I gasped. “That was—that was uncalled for!”

He turned, eyes burning beneath the low flicker of the library light, and his grip didn’t loosen. If anything, he looked… disappointed.

“Bambi,” Skoll murmured. “He doesn’t deserve mercy,” His head tilted, wolf-like. “Or pity.”

I exhaled slowly, forcing my spine to straighten, lifting my chin even as my stomach twisted in on itself.

Don’t let him see that you’re rattled.

“Regardless,” I said, voice carefully even, “there’s a whole dinner party happening right outside this library. Someone will hear him screaming!"

Skoll didn’t miss a beat, "Every room in my parents’ estate is soundproof."

My stomach dropped.

Of course it was. They were Lycans. Their senses were too sharp, too heightened—privacy would be a necessity.

Damn it and then—Without breaking eye contact with me, Skoll pressed down. Russell arched beneath his grip, a raw, garbled scream tearing loose from his throat.

Crack.

I grimaced, one hand flying up to cover my ears as the sound of enamel splintering echoed like a gunshot inside my skull.

More blood poured from Russell’s mouth in thick, choking ropes, bubbling at the corners of his lips as he gurgled on pain and helplessness.

“What the hell!” I shrieked.

Skoll finally looked down at Russell, like only now remembering the man writhing beneath his hand. “You want mercy?” he asked, voice light. Almost bored. “Then beg.”

I blinked, stunned. “What?”

His tone dropped, softer. Deadlier. “If you want me to stop… if you don’t want me to break another one of his teeth, get on your knees and ask me nicely, Bambi.”

Russell let out a broken sob, twitching, blood slicking his chin and I shouldn't still be here. This was insane and I should've left. Two broken teeth ago, I should've walked out.

But suddenly, a memory I'd tried to bury surfaced. My father used to do this too—make us beg for mercy whenever he was beating my mom. The same cold command, the same expectation of submission.

Yet there was a crucial difference. My father's eyes had been empty, his cruelty random and uncontrolled. Skoll's were calculating, measured—his violence had purpose. And somewhere in that distinction lay the reason I was still in this room, watching instead of running.

My nails bit into my palms, a sharp sting I clung to like a lifeline and my jaw clenched. My pulse thundered against my throat.

“I—I won’t—”

Skoll exhaled through his nose, a quiet sound full of, guess what, disappointment. “Shame.” He pressed against a third tooth—slow, cruel, deliberate.

Russell let out another shrieking cry that cracked apart in his throat and it didn’t even sound human anymore.

I swallowed hard, bile creeping up.

This wasn’t supposed to be my burden.

How the hell had Skoll twist this moment, like this?

How had he made me feel responsible for what he was doing?

“Please!” I gasped, the word spilling out before I could think.

Skoll clicked his tongue—soft. Almost scolding. “That’s it?” he murmured, his voice was quiet, edged with something cold. Unsatisfied and then came the slow shake of his head. “You don’t really want me to stop, do you?”

I didn’t know anymore.

“No—no,” I shook my head. “I don’t want Russell to suffer like this.”

“No?”

“No!”

“I think you’re lying.”

Russell sobbed in the background—high, keening.

Skoll’s grip shifted, fingers pressing deeper into his ruined mouth. Against the fourth teeth, and I shouted.

“Wait!” Panic clawed up my throat.

My knees slammed to the marble floor. Sharp pain shot through my legs—but it was nothing.

Not compared to this.

Not compared to the choking, suffocating pressure in my chest.

The raw sting of Russell’s blow still lived in my skin. Bruises forming. Breath catching but none of it compared to the man towering over me now.

Not his strength.

Not his violence.

Not even his eyes.

I had to make him stop because if I didn’t, if I watched this happen, knew it was happening and said nothing…I was just as bad and maybe worse.

“Please,” I whispered, barely audible.

Skoll arched a brow, unimpressed. “Bambi, you’re not even trying.”

His thumb dragged across Russell’s blood-slicked lip, like he was testing texture. Like he was tasting fear.

“Please,” I said again, my voice hoarse but softer. “Skoll, let him go.”

Skoll’s gaze dissected me like a thing meant to be devoured and then—he smiled. 

Not a smirk. Not smugness.

It was slow. Sharp and the kind of smile that sank into your bones and whispered too late. The kind that said he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.

“Crawl to me,” He Skoll demanded and my body locked. Breath caught sharp in my throat.

Shame burned through me, thick and blistering, but I moved.

One hand forward.

Then the other.

My knees dragged over the cold marble, the hem of my dress brushing across the polished floor.

Each inch forward felt like a scream under my skin as Skoll’s gaze tracked me like a predator watching prey crawl into its jaws.

By the time I reached him, my body was wrecked—hiccuping, trembling, breath shallow and fast.

Skoll made a sound. A low, pleased hum and it was dark. Twisted but he was pleased. “Fuck, you make shame look soo sweet.”

Then, without effort, he grabbed Russell by the collar and yanked him down—down to my level.

I flinched as Russell let out a choked cry. His mouth hung open, ruined, and blood spilled out.

Skoll’s bloody fingers twisted tighter in the fabric of Russell’s shirt, holding him upright. “Say sorry,” He ordered.

Russell twitched violently, shoulders jerking, body shaking like a leaf in a storm and he tried. Really tried but between the sobs and the blood choking him, the words couldn’t make it past his lips.

And for a single, fleeting second…I almost felt bad.

Almost.

But no amount of blood was going to make me forget who Russell really was. Even now, I could picture him painting himself as the victim. Like this moment erased everything that came before.

And then a whisper crept in: Was he the victim right now?

Russell murmured nonsense—slurred, soaked in blood.

Skoll tilted his head, “You can do better than that.” And with a brutal tug, he dragged Russell lower—forced his face toward the blood-slick marble. “Beg.”

And Russell broke. “I—” he choked, saliva and blood mixing on his tongue. “I’m sorry.”

A pause.

Skoll smirked, "That’s a start."

The warlock who tried to own me—who leveraged my mother’s downfall like a leash—now knelt at my feet, crying, bleeding, broken.

Skoll stood dragging Russell back up with him. He wiped his bloodied hands into Russell’s tuxedo jacket.

Skoll took a step back, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the last remnants of restraint. Then, just as effortlessly as he had torn Russell apart, he turned his emeralds back to me.

His expression softened as he stared down at me—just a fraction, just enough to send my heart slamming against my ribs in a completely different way.

My voice came out hoarse, shaking. "Skoll, he’s Russell Bale." I said hoping he would sense that Russell wasn’t just an every day Warlock, the Bale bloodline was well known and powerful in their own right.

Skoll answered, "I know who he is. Back in the day he used to sponsor fighters in the fight ring and from what I last remember, he owed me a few favors.”

In other words the warlock wouldn’t talk. Not after this.

Russell jerked a frantic nod, agreeing that those favors still stood even now. His head bobbed uselessly, like a broken marionette on frayed strings.

Skoll didn’t even spare him a second glance. His voice was smooth, almost indifferent. "Get out. Use the back door."

Russell staggered, blood dripping, wet splatters onto the marble floor, and he fled.

Across the library, the door clicked shut behind him, and the space was too quiet—unnaturally so. Like the storm had passed, but left something heavier in its wake. Something that clung to me and wouldn’t leave.

The only sound left was mine. My own broken sobbing, the wet sniffling that filled the silence like a pathetic echo.

Skoll exhaled, slow and deep, like he was already bored of the whole thing. Then, he extended a hand. A gesture so casual, so utterly absurd after what had just happened, that for a moment, I just stared at it.

Then, without thinking, I swatted his hand away. The sharp smack of skin against skin cut through the silence and his fingers twitched. Just slightly, not in irritation. Not in amusement but just a slow curl, like something thoughtful.

I pushed myself up, legs weak, body trembling, but I refused to show it. I straightened my dress, smoothed the fabric, forced myself back into something that resembled composure.

Then, voice steady, even as my pulse thundered in my throat, I spat, "Fuck you, Skoll."

And I walked past him, refusing to look back but I felt him.

Still watching. 

Even as I disappeared through the door, even as I forced myself to keep moving, his presence, his emeralds and his damned scent lingered—heavy, inescapable.

-

This is an early draft, so if you spot anything or feel something, I’d love to hear it. Doesn't have to be long, a few words. Your comments and feedback help shape the final version.

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The Ulfric library was tucked away in the grand estate, a sanctuary of burnished wood and hushed whispers.

The moment I stepped inside, the familiar scent enveloped me—aged leather bindings and the faint mustiness that clung to volumes untouched for decades. I drew in a deep breath, letting the comforting smell of knowledge and secrets fill my lungs.

When Richard would bring me here, while he talked business down the hall with Helga’s husband and sons. I’d curl up in one of the oversized leather chairs, flipping through books too old for my age, barely understanding a word—letting the murmur of voices beyond those heavy doors lull me into quiet.

Now, beneath it all something else lingered. That same wild scent from the balcony—pine and smoke, earth after rainfall, and something untamed that made my pulse quicken.

It was Skoll’s scent. Too fresh. Too present to be memory or imagination but he wasn’t here and my imagination was running wild.

When I was younger, that scent unnerved me—wild and sharp, like something that didn’t belong indoors but when I got older…when puberty hit and everything inside me began to twist and awaken, that scent started doing other things, to my mind, body and soul.

But there were other memories too. In this very room, I would touch myself when I was fifteen years old. Tucked in one of those oversized leather chairs, heart pounding, breath caught.

Imagining Skoll’s face, his scent and imagining that he was kissing me instead of his fiance at the time.

Gods. I had a huge crush on him.

Russell’s voice cut through the haze of memory like a blade. “Sneaking away from the party?”

I turned, forcing neutrality into my features. “Just needed a breather.”

He stepped closer, his smirk already curdling into something smug. “Oh, come on, Kaylee,” he drawled, voice dripping with amusement. “You really think I don’t know what this is?”

My brow twitched. “What what is?”

“You, leading me here.” Russell’s gaze dropped—dragging over the lines of my dress.

I stiffened, heat blooming up my neck, shame and disbelief clawing through my ribs.

Oh no.

Russell thought—His fingers brushed mine. “You don’t have to be shy,” he murmured and his thumb swept across my knuckles. A lover’s touch laid over something too familiar, too assumed.

The walls felt closer. The air, thick. My body locked and I wrenched my hand back. Pulse spiking. Not with desire, with dread.

“Russell…” I began, but he was already reaching again, his palm ghosting toward my waist.

I caught his wrist mid-motion, fingers tight. His blue eyes snapped to the contact, and for a second, he just stared.

Then the smirk cracked and something cold and ugly bled through. “So,” Russell said quietly, “you are just a cock tease.”

The words hit like a slap. “Excuse you?”

Russell yanked his wrist from my grasp. “You act like you’re better than everyone,” he hissed. “Like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. That dress. The way you smile. Flirting with Colin and every man in the room—just enough to keep them circling but you never actually follow through, do you?”

My stomach knotted. Rage blooming beneath my skin. “Where the hell did that come from?”

Russell stepped in, voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “Oh, come on. I’ve seen you. The way they look at you, how Collin Teller was looking at you.”

“You’re being ridiculous, he’s a family friend. I’ve known him for years.”

“Play innocent but at the end of the night? You always leave them with nothing.”

“Screw you, Russell,” I bit out. “I didn’t bring you here to fuck.”

“Then why are we alone?” His tone turned cold—cutting.

I squared my shoulders, swallowing against the burn clawing its way up my throat.

Don’t flinch. Don’t cry. Don’t give him the goddamn satisfaction.

But my body betrayed me and my pulse roared in my ears, breath too fast, too shallow. And then—Tears.

Hot, angry, unwanted. Slipping past my lashes before I could stop them.

Not sadness.

Not fear.

Fury.

“This isn’t working.” My voice cracked, but I forced the words through clenched teeth. My hands curled into fists at my sides, trembling.

Silence. A pause that stretched, then—A low chuckle. Soft. Dismissive.

“You’re joking.”

I met Russell’s gaze head-on. “I’m not. I don’t want this.”

The smirk faltered, just for a breath and then it snapped back into place—polished and poisonous. “Not what you want,” he echoed, like the idea tasted bitter on his tongue. Like it was laughable.

Russell moved even closer. Too close and his fingers grazed my arm.

“Kaylee…” His voice dipped, softened to a coaxing lull. “Look at you, getting all emotional,” he murmured, voice lined with mock concern. “Shaking. Crying. You really think you have a choice?”

“I do have a choice,” I bit out. “And I’m making it now.”

Russell exhaled through his nose, sharp and irritated. Like I was a stubborn pet refusing to heel.

“And what exactly do you plan to do?” His smile barely covered the contempt brewing beneath. “Run off and bake cupcakes while your mother drags the last of your family’s name through the mud?”

My stomach twisted, bile rising behind my teeth. “What is wrong with you?”

“Oh, don’t act clueless,” he sneered, voice dipping into something darker. “Your whoring mother already dragged your family name through the dirt. And you?” His gaze swept over me, slow and full of contempt. “Parading around in that dress like a desperate little witch, thinking any of us would ever take you seriously?”

Something inside me snapped and my palm met his cheek before thought could catch up.

The crack of flesh on flesh echoed through the library as Russell’s head whipped to the side—and for a heartbeat, silence. Just the sound of my own jagged breath.

Then his mask shattered.

He lunged. Fingers like iron clamped around my jaw, squeezing until it ached. His face inches from mine, breath hot and venomous.

“You little bitch,” he hissed. “You should be grateful I’m even considering you. I could have anyone. Anyone. But here I am—offering you a way to fix the mess you call a life—and you're too blind to take it.”

“Let. Me. Go,” I choked, voice raw and high, tears slipping free as I clawed at his wrist.

Russell didn’t and his grip only tightened. His eyes flicked to my lips, then back to my face with something hungry and cruel.

“How about this,” he whispered, silk over broken glass, “I walk out first. Give you a moment to fix your face. We pretend none of this happened.”

“Get the hell away from me!” I screamed, struggling hard as his body pressed against mine.

“No,” His voice was low. Steady. Smug and completely in control. “And let’s face it,” he said, driving me back step by step, “you need me. To clean up your image. To keep the Council off your family’s back.”

My spine collided with the desk. Hard and pain flared sharp at the base, stealing my breath.

Russell loomed. “I have an even better idea, why don’t we fuck on this desk, right now, get it over with—and stop pretending you don’t want it.”

I tried to shove him back but he was solid. Unmovable and I thrashed harder—legs kicking, breath ragged, the thunder of my heartbeat deafening.

No. No. No.

And then—Something broke inside me.

The air shifted and my magik answered with rage.

The moisture in the air vanished. Ripped away and Russell choked—gasped—his lungs struggling in the sudden, suffocating dryness.

He faltered, just for a second and then his eyes flared with temper. A snarl tore from his throat, animal and unhinged as his fist slammed into my gut.

Brutal. Devastating.

The world tilted, pain exploding through my core and my knees buckled.

A sharp, wet crack echoed inside me and my magik flickered.

Then vanished.

I crumpled forward with a guttural gasp torn from my lungs as white-hot pain flared across my abdomen. My body curled inward, instinct desperate to shield the damage.

My knees gave but Russell didn’t let me fall. Fingers snarled in my hair—fistfuls of it—yanking me upright so fast my spine screamed. A broken whimper escaped my throat before I could swallow it.

Nausea surged. Fire lit every nerve and then—the desk. My lower back slammed into the edge, sharp and unforgiving. Agony burst through my ribs in a fresh shockwave.

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream.

Just trembled, crying and caught between the cold, unyielding wood and Russell’s crushing weight.

His breath grazed my ear, “The whore’s daughter bites back.” His voice was poison—low, simmering with rage and mockery.

And then—Russell was gone.

Yanked back so violently my body nearly pitched forward with him. The heat of his presence ripped away, leaving nothing but cold air against my sweat-slicked skin.

The sound came next.

A bone-crunching slam.

Wood splintering.

Bookshelves crashing in protest.

Russell choked.

I staggered, one hand clutched to my ribs, vision swimming in violent static.

Then I saw him.

Skoll Ulfric.

A mountain of muscle and shadow, standing amidst the many bookshelves like he belonged in the wreckage.

One hand wrapped lazily around Russell’s throat—casual, almost bored and the other rolled his shoulder with slow precision, like waking from a long sleep.

This wasn’t a fight.

This was play.

“Am I interrupting something?” Skoll asked, his tone low, almost drowsy but his eyes—those burning green eyes—were sharp. Hungry. Fixed not on Russell.

They were on me and something in me clenched but I couldn’t answer with the ache in my stomach pulsing. It twisted now into heat, rising along my spine, curling at the base of my skull.

“You grew up,” Skoll murmured, assessing and I blinked. My throat worked around stunned silence. 

What was he doing here? And where the hell had he come from?

“Skoll,” Russell rasped, his voice broken, clawing at Skoll’s grip. “When did you—get back—?”

Skoll tilted his head, watching the warlock like he was deciding whether or not to finish what he started. 

Then he sighed. Not with mercy, with disappointment and just like that, Skoll let Russell go.

He crashed to the floor, coughing, cursing and scrambling backward like a kicked dog.

Skoll didn’t spare him a glance because his eyes were already back on me. Focused. Unyielding and he took a step forward.

Then another.

On instinct, I pressed back into the desk, pulse thundering in my throat.

Why are you flinching? I asked myself. 

Skoll saved you, but instincts didn’t care and it was like I was twelve years old again, and terrified of the Lycan.

“You’re shaking,” Skoll said and his voice was calm. Observational but it was like a hunter remarking on a wounded thing. “Are you alright?”

I couldn’t answer. My mind spun, trying to stitch reality together.

It was like Skoll Ulfric had risen from the dead but he wasn’t dead. He had walked away from this life. Years ago. After his siblings—

His scent hit me again…

Masculine. Cedarwood, smoke and something darker. Something feral and primal that filled the space between us like mist. Like hunger.

I clenched my fists and tried to stand straighter. 

“I’m fine,” I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, smearing tears and mascara.

I inhaled a breath, and my ribs ached.

Skoll’s hand moved before I could flinch. Two fingers—just his thumb and forefinger—gripped my chin, tilting my face up until our eyes locked.

The touch wasn’t cruel but it wasn’t gentle, either.

“Lie to me again,” Skoll said—low, dark, and full of warning. 

I shook my head, “I’m not li-” 

“And I’ll throw you over my knee, right here…” He leaned in, his mouth barely an inch from mine. I could feel his breath, warm and wild, curling against my lips. “I’ll drag up that pretty dress, bare your ass, and spank the truth out of you.”

My breath hitched and I blinked back tears.

“Y-you wouldn’t dare.”

Skoll's eyes darkened. “Would you care to try me?” His gaze dropped, slow and deliberate, trailing over my trembling hands. 

The shallow stutter of my breath and every detail—catalogued.

Before I could consider my next form of actions or words, from behind, Russell’s voice slithered in, jarring and unwanted. “Skoll, my date and I were having a disagreement—”

Of course he’d try to talk his way out because the man standing before me wasn’t just the eldest Ulfric son.

Skoll was once the Alpha Lycan of the Greater Toronto territory and the Pit Lord of the underground fight ring. No one defeated him for the position, he willingly walked away.

And now he released my chin, and was calmly unbuttoning the cuffs of his dress shirt. Rolling them up methodical and unhurried.

Like he had all the time in the world to destroy.

“Bambi,” Skoll said and his voice was soft. Too casual. “Is that true? This was all just… a disagreement, a couple's spat?”

I blinked.

Bambi.

I sniffled, forcing my gaze past him to where Russell hovered behind—pathetic, bruised, still trying to salvage his pride.

My voice shook, but I didn’t care. “I tried to break up with him and then he-”

Skoll moved before the words finished leaving my mouth.

No warning. No tension. Just motion.

My breath caught—a pavlovian response to violence that I'd never quite unlearned. My father had moved like that too, the sudden shift from stillness to destruction that gave you no time to run. 

I hated how familiar it felt, watching another man unleash controlled rage. I hated even more the sick fascination that kept me rooted to this spot. 

Why was I always drawn to men who could break things with their bare hands?

One second Russell stood there, and the next—Skoll’s fingers lashed out and caught him by the jaw.

The warlock flinched too late.

Too slow to retreat.

Too slow to stop what was coming.

Skoll yanked him forward with that effortless, inhuman strength—dragging him into the moment, into the brutal realization that Russell wasn’t in control anymore.

A dark smirk curled Skoll’s lips and it wasn’t humorous.

It was a promise.

“Let’s see if you can bite back,” he growled.

-

This is an early draft, so if you spot anything or feel something, I’d love to hear it. Doesn't have to be long, a few words. Your comments and feedback help shape the final version.

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Don't miss a chapter update. Join my FREE membership to stay updated on the latest chapter releases.

Click Join Now on the right to become a premium member and support my author journey: Covers, marketing, editing etc—or choose 'Start with a free account' at the top if you’d rather stick with the free tier.

KAYLEE

Away from prying eyes, my phone buzzed and I opened my clutch and took it out. Three missed calls from Bryson, and a text message announcing his late arrival.

There was also a text from Emery asking how tonight was going. And a notification from an encrypted messaging app—one I'd downloaded after Viola insisted we all needed it for "privacy." 

The latest Underground Pulse podcast had dropped. 

I shouldn't listen to it. 

Not here. 

Not at the Ulfric estate with supernatural elites mingling just beyond the glass doors. But my fingers grabbed my bluetooth earpiece in my clutch, and placed it in my ear. I tapped the notification before I could stop myself and the familiar diamond-patterned mask filled my screen—geometric facets reflecting studio lights, obscuring any hint of the speaker's identity. 

The voice, artificially lowered and modulated, filled my earbuds. "The supernatural elite gather tonight as they have for centuries," the voice began, sending an uncomfortable chill down my spine. 

How did they know about tonight's dinner? 

"They drink from crystal, they make their deals, they arrange their convenient matches—all while wearing the comfortable chains they've been conditioned to love." 

I glanced over my shoulder, suddenly paranoid someone might see what I was watching and listening to. But the balcony remained empty. 

"Look around you," the masked figure continued, "at how we've allowed ourselves to be domesticated. Supernatural beings with the power to shatter mountains, reduced to attending galas and worrying about social standing. Lycans who once ran wild now wear designer suits. Vampyrs who ruled from shadows now petition for permits and licenses."

My stomach tightened. There was something magnetic about the way he spoke—dangerous yet compelling. "They've made us complacent. Comfortable with scraps of power while the real control rests elsewhere but evolution doesn't accept complacency. It demands adaptation or extinction." 

The masked figure leaned closer to the camera. "Ask yourself: Are you evolving? Or are you just another well-trained pet playing at power games while wearing a collar you've been taught to call a necklace?" 

I closed the app quickly, a flush of guilt washing over me. It was the kind of radical content that would horrify my mother—that should horrify me. Yet something in those words resonated uncomfortably with how I felt tonight, being paraded around like Russell's future possession.

The words echoed in my mind: "Are you evolving? Or are you just another well-trained pet wearing a collar you've been taught to call a necklace?"

Was I? My entire life. From my biological parents, to every time Russell selected my clothes, decided where we ate, or dictated how I should style my hair—was I just accepting the collar? 

Seven dates in, and already I could feel the chain shortening. His expectations becoming demands. Something inside me solidified, hardened into resolve.

"Not enjoying yourself?" I nearly dropped my phone as I turned to find Richard standing beside me, and he held out a small dessert plate with a single tart.

Shoving both my phone and bluetooth into my clutch, I took the plate from his grasp. “Thank you,” and then I took a bite of the tart before answering. “Oh, I’m having the time of my life,” I deadpanned.

He huffed a quiet laugh and then crossed his arms, while watching me with knowing eyes. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

I glanced at him, my brow arching. “My mother would have an aneurysm.”

Richard watched me carefully, a quiet weight in his gaze and my stomach dropped. “Probably. You could do worse than Russell.” 

Russell was a calculated choice. A good match. Someone who fit the image my mother wanted to maintain. A warlock and this match wasn’t for love. Just a convenient arrangement.

I swallowed hard, my heart hammering against my ribs as I stared beyond the balcony. The night stretched before me—vast, dark, and unknowable—and something in me ached to vanish into that velvet darkness, to be swallowed by its endless silence.

Richard furthered. “But take it from me, you don’t want to be in an unhappy relationship. You may think you can deal with it, but eventually it will eat you alive.”

My focus now snapped up to him, and my brows furrowed. “I dislike him.”

“Then break up. Your mother will behead me for saying that but I support whatever path you choose.”

I sighed, and before I could respond, a familiar voice cut through our conversation. "Richard Connor. Still dispensing fatherly wisdom, I see."

I turned to find Colin Tellar approaching with that casual grace that had always made him stand out in these gatherings. The son of Richard's oldest business partner, Colin had been a fixture in our lives since she remarried Richard. 

Collin’s suit was impeccably tailored, as always, dark eyes gleaming with that particular intensity that reminded everyone he was a vampyr without him having to show fangs.

Richard's expression warmed genuinely. "Colin! Didn't think you'd tear yourself away from your empire long enough to grace us with your presence."

"For Helga's first dinner in years?" Colin replied with an easy smile, clasping Richard's shoulder with familiar affection. "I rearranged my entire week. Though the rare blood vintages she promised might have sweetened the deal."

His gaze shifted to me, and his smile softened into something almost fond. "There's my favorite pastry witch."

I couldn't help returning the smile. Colin had always been different from the others in Richard's circle—he'd never treated me like an accessory or a child. "I would have brought you something if I'd known you'd be here. I perfected that cardamom-infused blood truffle you liked."

"You're spoiling me," he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I still have dreams about that batch you sent over after my Tokyo acquisition." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "My assistant caught me licking the box."

Richard chuckled, shaking his head. "Kaylee's the only one who remembers that vampyrs have taste buds beyond just blood types."

"A rare gift," Colin agreed, his eyes lingering on mine with appreciation that felt genuine, not calculated like Russell's assessing glances. "The Winter Solstice eclairs were exceptional. I had to physically restrain a good friend of mine from hunting you down for the recipe."

I felt heat rise in my cheeks—not from embarrassment, but from the simple pleasure of having my work recognized. "Just a hobby. Something to keep my hands busy," I told him.

"A crime against culinary art to call it just a hobby," Colin replied, then glanced at Richard with mock severity. "You need to stop letting Kiku push her into the family business. The world has enough event planners and too few pastry witches who understand the subtle complexities of blood infusion."

Richard raised his hands in surrender. "I've tried telling both of them. That’s a niche that no one has really picked up on. Kaylee knows I'll support whatever path she chooses."

"Including the Saldana gala?" Colin asked, turning back to me, eyes sparkling with interest. "That's quite the high-profile client for your debut as lead coordinator."

I blinked, surprised he'd know about that. "News travels fast."

"I make it a point to keep track of promising talent," he replied, voice carrying a hint of something I couldn't quite place. "Though I've always believed your gifts would be better served creating rather than coordinating."

Before I could reply, Russell's voice cut in. "There you are. I've been looking for you."

The warmth in Colin's expression cooled instantly. He straightened, his posture shifting as he acknowledged Russell with a polite nod that didn't reach his eyes.

"Russell," Colin said, his tone perfectly pleasant yet somehow hollow. "Impeccable timing as always."

Richard cleared his throat slightly, giving Russell a measured nod before placing a hand on Colin's shoulder. "We should catch up on that other matter," he said, the casual words belied by the sudden tension in his jaw.

Colin's gaze lingered on me for a moment—something like concern flickering across his face before it smoothed into his usual composed mask. "Don't forget about those truffles," he said lightly, then turned to follow Richard. 

"Three more embedded this quarter. The Vancouver territory should be accessible within months..." Colin told Richard and their heads were bent in conversation. "...though I may need to rotate the Montréal asset. She's getting too attached..."

They were gone and I turned to face my date, forcing a smile even as my stomach tightened. The masked figure's words echoed in my head: "They've made us complacent." 

The thought of continuing this charade—of accepting Russell's control, of being another well-trained pet—suddenly felt claustrophobic, like walls closing in from all sides.

"Russell," I said, my voice steadier than I expected, though I could feel emotion straining beneath it like a current. "Can we go somewhere quiet and talk?"

He studied me with that curious expression he wore when he couldn't quite read me—a look that might have once made me nervous but now just solidified my resolve.

"Of course," he said, all gallant concern now.

I already knew where we'd go. 

Somewhere private enough for honesty but public enough for safety. The library—because if this turned ugly, which part of me almost hoped it would, my stepfather wasn't far.

As for my mother and her delicate social aspirations? I'd weather that storm later. 

Right now, I needed to reclaim whatever power I had left. Evolution, as the masked figure had said, demanded adaptation or extinction. 

And I refused to become extinct under Russell's thumb.

-

This is an early draft, so if you spot anything or feel something, I’d love to hear it. Doesn't have to be long, a few words. Your comments and feedback help shape the final version.

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KAYLEE

The Ulfric estate loomed ahead, its grand columns cutting against the twilight, its presence thick with power. A place of wealth and carefully curated appearances, nestled deep within the forests, just outside Toronto where the oldest supernatural bloodlines had claimed territory centuries ago.

The winding private road snaked through dense woodland, deliberately isolating the mansion from the modern world beyond. Old growth pines stood like silent sentinels, their shadows deepening as the car drove on the path. Even the wildlife seemed to quiet, instinctively aware of the predators that called this land home.

I had been here before, countless times in the past, watching the seasons change against the estate's imposing silhouette. But tonight, magik clung differently to the air. It was woven through the very foundation of the estate, humming beneath my skin as I stepped out of the limo. The mansion's windows gleamed amber against the encroaching darkness, each one revealing glimpses of supernatural elegance moving within.

Dread coiled in my stomach like a living thing, heavy and cold. It wasn't because of my location, nor was it because the Ulfrics hadn't thrown a dinner party in years. It was something else—something in the air itself, charged with anticipation, as though the very walls were holding their breath.

My mother, ever the socialite, was in high spirits. The hem of her designer dress whispered against the gravel as she walked ahead of me, her perfume mingling with the scent of pine and old power that always permeated these grounds. 

To her, this invitation wasn't just a dinner—it was a triumphant return to the inner circles she'd been fighting to reclaim.

Her laughter was light and airy as she stepped out of the car. She had been buzzing about Helga’s dinner all week, calling me and leaving text messages. Dropping hints, making little comments that chipped away at my patience.

My mom made it clear that although I was a grown woman and living on my own, tonight wasn’t an option. It was an evening to celebrate "the future," but my stepfather and I both knew what she meant.

Russell.

I swallowed down my irritation and forced a polite smile as I followed her and my stepfather inside.

The dining hall was exactly as I remembered—marble floors, high ceilings, chandeliers casting warm golden light over polished mahogany. 

Expensive, elegant and suffocating. The kind of place where people smiled with their teeth, some literal fangs but never their eyes.

A passing waiter, his fingers too long, his pupils thin slits like a serpent’s, gracefully poured wine into a crystal glass—dark, thick, not wine at all.

Supernaturals moved effortlessly through the space—wings folding neatly against backs, horns gleaming under the low golden light, tails flicking as whispered conversations filled the air.

“So,” my mom said, snatching a flute glass from a passing waiter. “Did Bryson return your texts?”

I bristled, already knowing where this was going. “If he did, I would have told you.”

Mom made a sound of disapproval, something between a scoff and a sigh. “Your brother hasn’t stopped skipping school, and running with the wrong crowd. If he keeps this up, he won’t graduate.”

“He’ll be fine,” I said, my voice tighter than I intended and officially dreading the rest of the night. “He’s just… figuring out some things.”

That was my excuse, when in all reality, I had no idea what Bryson had been up to. For a heartbeat, my eyes couldn’t help but to fall on Richard, my stepfather, the source of my brother’s downward spiral and he caught my glance. My chest tightened and my mom continued to exchange polite pleasantries with those around us. 

“That blue dress would have been lovely tonight,” she mused, her smile too bright, too knowing. “This dress makes you seem approachable.”

My stepfather held her hand, and told her. “Sweetie, it's just a dress. Let this go.”

She didn’t. She never did.

I clenched my jaw, allowing the many scents to fill my lungs. Incense, rare perfumes, something metallic—wards humming beneath the surface. And blood. Always blood.

My hand shot out and snatched a flute glass from a passing tray before the waiter even stopped. Downing the champagne in one go, I said. “I am approachable,” and now I licked the fizz off my lips. “Russell and I aren’t exclusive.”

My mom’s smile tightened as she plucked the now-empty glass from my fingers. “You should not be drinking. Richard, can you talk to her?”

I didn’t give him the chance. My hand shot out, grabbing another flute from a passing waitress.

“Can you stop?” she hissed, her voice sharp enough to cut. “You can’t handle your liquor.”

“Can you leave me alone?” I shot back, voice syrupy with fake sweetness.

A few curious eyes turned our way.

Richard exhaled a laugh, shaking his head, giving me a fatherly wink. “Kaylee is a smart woman who knows what she wants. We should trust her decisions.”

Mom pursed her lips, exhaling hard. “You say that, yet, she’s one shot away from stumbling over her heels.” Her eyes darted around the room as if this whole exchange had been a minor inconvenience.

She dumped the empty glasses onto a passing waiter’s tray, her attention already moving on, dismissing the entire conversation.

“He should be here,” My mom muttered, like Richard hadn’t spoken at all, her gaze stretching across the room, searching.

Russell was always here at these events, and so far we've had seven dates and they’ve been okay. He was the perfect gentleman with a side dish of control. 

The first few dates were normal, but the rest he chose our date locations. What we ate. Suggestions on what I wear and even my hair styles. I let him decide. I let him control. I let him think I agreed because I knew what was coming. 

The noose was already there, tightening with each step, each dinner, each decision made for me. And the worst part? I didn’t know how to stop it. 

I didn’t know if I could.

Inhaling, I bit back any retorts and or complains. They would fall on deaf ears and my mod had already steamrolled over my opinions tonight—first about the dress, then about Russell. 

"Oh, there your date is," She chirped, her dress sashaying behind her as she beelined toward my supposed date, not even bothering to check if I was following. 

Of course I was. 

I always did.

Did this count as a date, if I was forced into coming and the guy I was getting to know was always at these events?

Russell stood near the grand fireplace, drink in hand, watching me before I even reached him. His eyes flicked to me—a slow, assessing sweep from head to toe—and his smirk widened in approval. Not the smile of a man admiring beauty, but of a collector appraising his newest acquisition. 

As if he was already picturing me standing beside him, a trophy he had yet to claim but knew would be his.

"Mrs. Connor," Russell drawled to my mom, using her new surname after she married Richard. He reached for her, opening his arms for an embrace and his cologne washed over me—spice and something sharper, more chemical. Expensive. 

My mom gleefully returned the hug, practically melting into his approval. "Please, Russell, enough with the formalities. Call me Kiku."

Russell chuckled, his smile widening as he cast a sideways glance at me. "Of course, Kiku," he said smoothly, and something unspoken flickered behind his blue eyes—something that made my stomach tighten. The obnoxiousness of it all ticked in the back of my head like an old grandfather's clock, counting down the moments until I'd be cornered.

I was drowning in an hourglass. The sand rising too fast, filling my lungs, pulling me under like quicksand. Each grain, another second closer to the inevitable.

My mother beamed, squeezing his arm affectionately as she glanced between us with thinly veiled expectation. "Well, don't let me stand between both of you. Come, Richard." She stepped aside, and my stepfather and her disappeared into the crowd of guests, leaving me alone with the wolf in designer clothing.

Russell turned his full attention to me, stepping closer. Too close. His heat bled into my space, thickening the air until it clung to my lungs like smoke.

He took my hand, his grip firm, possessive. “You look… acceptable. What happened to the dress I sent to your house?” He lifted my hand to his lips and pressed a kiss on the top, slow and deliberate.

My stomach twisted, but I forced a neutral expression. “I had this crimson dress stashed in my closet, and it’s my favorite.”

Russell’s smirk barely faltered as he tugged my arm and placed it within his, leading me through the sea of guests. It was effortless for him, the way he maneuvered through the room, his presence commanding, as if I was merely an accessory at his side.

I should call this off. End it here and now but he was Russell Bale. That name meant something in the supernatural world. That name would put my family, to be specific my mother’s name in the good graces of the council.

“I’ve seen you in it many times,” he murmured, tone lined with mild annoyance. “You act like you can’t afford any other dresses.”

“I dress for comfort,” I told him, my voice even, controlled.

His fingers flexed over mine. “Comfort isn’t always an option, Kaylee. Not for people like us.”

I swallowed hard, letting him lead—even as every nerve in my body screamed to pull away. My limbs moved, but they weren’t mine. Just extensions of habit. Of fear, dressed up in grace.

Smile. Glide. Nod.

The practiced elegance of a proper lady bred for high society. My mother would have been proud—if she couldn’t smell the panic beneath the perfume.

“I tried calling you earlier,” Russell said, tone light but not harmless. “But it went straight to voicemail.”

His voice was pleasant. Too pleasant.

I smiled at a passing guest, lips stretching on command, but his words sliced beneath my skin. A hint of sugar-slicked accusation wrapped in concern. The kind of tone that said you’re mine, and I noticed you went missing.

"I have a gala event for Fradan Saldana in a few days," I offered, keeping my tone airy—rehearsed. But it still sounded like a defense. "I’ve been dealing with caterers and staff. Making sure everything runs perfectly. I've been drowning in calls and back-and-forth emails."

Each word tightened around my ribs, another link in the invisible chain he was wrapping around me. One loop at a time.

Russell hummed, his smirk barely contained. “Your first high event.”

I nodded, careful to keep my chin high. “My mother insisted I take control, but—”

“But you’d rather bake.”

The way he said bake… like it was a dirty word. Something base. Undignified. Like my passion for pastries and flavor profiles was childish compared to bloodlines and ambition. And maybe, in his eyes, it was. 

Russell—an ascending warlock born of a family that polished power like crystal, would never see value in sugar and heat.

However, what my mother was offering—Event Strategist—was more than just baking. It was influence wrapped in crystal glassware and custom floral installations. It wasn’t about cakes or pastries. It was about controlling the room. The narrative. The access.

Because being the one elites trusted to plan their parties, their galas, their secret gatherings? That wasn’t weakness. That was power.

I heard things. Saw things. Learned where leverage lived—whispered behind silk curtains, buried in champagne toasts, and sealed in backroom handshakes.

It was strategy, it was survival and that was what Russell understood better than most. The subtle art of being everywhere without being seen, of collecting secrets while appearing to simply serve champagne. 

That was partly how my mother had clawed her way back into the council's good graces—standing in the shadows, hearing things she shouldn't, using information as currency. And despite its effectiveness, I wanted no part of it.

“You’ll find your way soon enough,” was all Russell said.

A dismissal dressed as encouragement and then he was gone—swept into the orbit of other men, pulled into political conversations, business dealings, and the exhausting echo chamber of egos that thrived on their own importance.

I didn’t follow, and this time he didn’t haul me along.

Instead, I drifted—slipping through the cracks of the evening like smoke, drawn to quieter corners of the Ulfric’s estate.

I slipped through the French doors onto the east balcony. The night air cool against my flushed skin, the stone railing was cold beneath my palms as I leaned against it and exhaled the tension that had been building in my chest all evening.

A breeze stirred—soft, deliberate. The kind of wind that carried stories if you knew how to listen and on it… a scent.

Sharp. Smoky. Wild.

Not cologne, but something older. Something primal. Like pine caught fire and refused to go out.

It caught me off guard—because for a heartbeat, it reminded me of him. 

The eldest Ulfric son, Skoll.

The one who vanished five years ago like a myth swallowed by war and that was insane because, why was I thinking of him? 

I knew the Ulfric siblings, all three of them because Richard used to come here often and he would drag me with him. But I was younger than them—a child trailing after adults, watching from corners with curious, observant eyes. They barely noticed me. Especially him.

My chest tightened instinctively, muscles pulling taut like a bow drawn too long. When I was younger, that scent would unnerve me and yet, here it was again—carried on the wind like a warning.

Or maybe a promise.

I inhaled deeply, letting the scent fill my lungs. My body remembered what my mind tried to forget—the way Skoll moved through rooms like they belonged to him. The way his emerald eyes had once caught mine across a crowded hall, holding me frozen one too many times before dismissing me entirely.

My fingers curled against the cold stone railing. Perhaps I was just desperate—so desperate to escape Russell's suffocating grip that I was conjuring ghosts from memory. After all, no one had seen Skoll Ulfric in five years. After they buried his siblings, he spilled blood in the streets for weeks seeking revenge, that I never truly understood.

I don’t think anyone did.

Then, Skoll vanished into darkness with a mile high body count, and yet something in the air had changed tonight. 

Something electric. 

Dangerous.

And part of me—the reckless, foolish part I tried to keep buried—hoped it was him.

-

This is an early draft, so if you spot anything or feel something, I’d love to hear it. Doesn't have to be long, a few words. Your comments and feedback help shape the final version.

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Few villain transformations expose the cost of backstory more than Maleficent’s fall—from sorcerous terror to misunderstood guardian.

In Disney's 1959 Sleeping Beauty, she wasn't a tragic figure—she was the embodiment of fairy tale evil. Her very presence disrupted the world around her. When she materialized in a blaze of green fire at Aurora's christening, she wasn't just making an entrance—she was making a statement: you will regret excluding me.

Her aristocratic poise, razor-edged words, and cold, casual cruelty rendered her untouchable. Eleanor Audley's iconic voice dripped with regal venom—each syllable a threat cloaked in elegance. Maleficent didn't need depth. She needed only to exist—and that was enough to terrify.

What made the original Maleficent so haunting was her lack of origin. She cursed a child to death simply for being excluded—no trauma, no justification. Just power, exercised with terrifying ease. She wasn't broken. She was boundless.

That absence of explanation let her become something more than a character—a vessel for fear itself. A force you couldn't reason with or understand. So when she transformed into a dragon in the film's final act, hissing "Now shall you deal with ME, O Prince, and all the powers of HELL!"—it wasn't just theatrics. It was a full-bodied eruption of wrath, earned by a film that dared not explain the darkness it unleashed.

The 2014 Maleficent couldn't resist doing the opposite.

It took this perfect, terrifying archetype and sought to humanize her through trauma. She becomes a peaceful forest guardian, betrayed and mutilated by a man she once trusted. The moment her wings are torn from her body, she stops being a force of evil—and becomes a victim in need of understanding.

Angelina Jolie delivers a captivating performance, but the moment the film gave us her pain, it took away her power. Because once you explain the monster, you make her mortal. And Maleficent was never meant to be understood—she was meant to be feared.

The visual cues tell the story just as clearly. Where the original Maleficent cloaked herself in shadow—draped in purples and blacks that radiated menace—the reimagined version leans into earth tones, elegance, and ethereal softness. Her arc from malevolent force to maternal guardian may add narrative complexity, but it strips away the primal dread that once made her unforgettable.

Even her dragon transformation—arguably one of cinema's most iconic villainous moments—is handed off to another character. The symbolic fusion of woman and wrath is severed, and with it, the raw spectacle of a villain fully embracing her monstrosity.

This transformation reflects a broader cultural shift—our growing preference for moral relativism over moral absolutism, especially in family entertainment. Modern audiences are conditioned to expect layered motives, redemptive arcs, and trauma-driven behavior—even from characters once defined by their unapologetic malice.

And while that can enrich storytelling, it begs the question: what do we lose when every villain must be understood?

The original Maleficent offered no such clarity. She didn't ask for sympathy. She wasn't burdened with backstory. She simply existed as incomprehensible evil—and in that, she fulfilled a vital role in fairy tale tradition. She represented the unknowable threat. The fear that couldn't be reasoned with. The shadow beyond explanation.

Her reimagined form helped usher in a wave of villain-centric retellings, each eager to reframe the monstrous as misunderstood. Though these stories may resonate with modern viewers—especially younger audiences raised on nuance—something essential has been lost.

The original Maleficent remains iconic not because we understood her, but because we couldn't. She was the nightmare without a name, the curse without cause. She was the monster we couldn't fix.

And that's what made her timeless.

In our relentless need to humanize villains, have we stripped them of their ability to truly haunt us? Maleficent's transformation perfectly captures both the gains and losses of modern villain storytelling. Yes, we gain emotional depth and psychological complexity. But we lose something older. We lose awe. We lose terror. We lose the unknowable.

Some monsters are most powerful when they remain monsters.
Not broken. Not bleeding.
Not waiting to be forgiven.

Just feared.

XOXO,
Athena Starr

If you’re here, chances are you love dark romance with bite—literally. Athena Starr writes seductive, twisted, emotionally high-stakes paranormal love stories where possessive antiheroes aren’t just morally gray—they’re pitch black.

Whether readers discover her through Substack, Fourthwall, or fall down a TikTok rabbit hole, one thing is certain:

They’re about to get ruined—in the best possible way.

What Athena Starr Writes

If you’ve ever searched for dark paranormal romance with possessive antiheroes and brutal chemistry, you’re exactly where you’re meant to be. 😈

Athena Starr writes for readers who crave obsession—stories where fierce, defiant heroines collide with dangerously seductive antiheroes. Her worlds are soaked in blood, supernatural tension, and forbidden power dynamics.

Expect vampyrs, witches, Lycans, and unholy alliances.

In Athena Starr’s books, love doesn’t redeem.

It devours.

Start Here: Athena Starr’s First Series

Depends on how dark, you’re willing to go.

If you’re looking for dark paranormal romance with twisted antiheroes and obsessive tension, start with Athena’s Starr main series: Blood of The Damned and The Savage Kin. These stories explore brutal devotion, power struggles, and dangerous supernatural love—with just enough bite to ruin you.

But if you’re curious how far the darkness can really stretch, there’s Blood Slave.

Blood Slave is part of Blood of the Damned, but it dives even deeper—captivity, trauma bonding, blood addiction, and a heroine caught in a revenge plot that was never hers to survive.

The title says it all. Blood Slave is not a love story—it’s psychological unraveling wrapped in fae blood, vengeance, and graphic survival.

Too intense? Don’t worry—Athena Starr’s other books still deliver high heat, high stakes, and tropes readers love: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, supernatural politics, and morally black antiheroes who fall hard and fight harder.

Start with Blood Descent, which is fast-paced and wicked, and the perfect introduction to her world.

You can also check out my Reading Order page.

Reader Types: What to Read Based on Your Vibe

Still not sure where to start? Let your favorite tropes guide you:

If you love enemies to lovers, forced proximity, and brutal chemistry
➤ Start with Alpha’s Claim. This one’s feral—think primal Lycan, forbidden/taboo, and tension that bites.

🔗 Read Alpha’s Claim – Start The Prologue

If you’re drawn to demonic antiheroes with tragic pasts and epic betrayals
➤ Blood Descent is your poison. A vampyr born of Asmodeus, a witch he can’t forget, and secrets that won’t stay buried.

🔥 Read Blood Descent – Start Chapter 1

If you crave savage bodyguards, crime syndicates, and found-family revenge arcs
➤ Stay tuned—more books in The Savage Kin is coming. It’s violent, intimate, and full of unholy alliances.

Early Access and Bonus Content

Want access to Athena Starr’s exclusive ebooks, bonus chapters, and behind-the-scenes lore?

Join The Unhaloed—her dark romance reader membership on Fourthwall and Patreon.

You’ll unlock:

• Exclusive bonus chapters

• Behind-the-scenes lore, terminology, and twisted extras

• Direct updates from me—no algorithm interference

Whether you’re here for the obsession, the betrayal, or the blood-soaked devotion, this is where the truly unholy content lives.

🖤 Join The Unhaloed and get ruined properly.

What’s Coming Next?

From cursed bloodlines to supernatural turf wars, the next wave of chaos is already in motion. Upcoming releases by dark romance author Athena Starr include new entries in The Savage Kin and Blood of the Damned series.

If you love seductive danger, obsessive antiheroes, and supernatural power plays, stay tuned. You don’t won’t want to miss what’s coming:

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XOXO

Athena Starr

The Genesis of Flame is the origin story of my entire supernatural universe—the ancient war between humanity and false gods that awakened the first magic, created the first dragons, and shattered the world into the present moments found in my books.

Coming Soon